


The Return

by mrohr



Category: White Collar
Genre: Case Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-09 03:40:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3234911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrohr/pseuds/mrohr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal, Peter, and Sara work together to solve a case, but things get complicated when Neal decides to bring the Raphael into play. WIP. Gen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Monday afternoon at the FBI

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in the second half of Season 2 (when I initially started writing it), several months after In The Red, except I'm ignoring the events at the end of Point Blank and everything after that. 
> 
> Thank you to my betas kusa23 and krocla who have been helping me with this fic. Any remaining errors/inaccuracies are entirely my fault; please feel free to point them out. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own White Collar.

Neal sat at his desk, flipping through a stack of case files, hoping to find something more interesting than the mortgage fraud case the team had just wrapped up. When Neal saw Peter come out of his own office and duck into Hughes’, Neal abandoned the files without compunction, and strolled over to Diana’s desk. He barely had time to ask Diana and Jones if they knew what was going on when Peter came rushing back out of Hughes’ office. Three heads tracked Peter as he rounded the corner and came down the stairs.

“We’ve got a new case, people. I want everyone in the conference room in five. Diana, can you print out a copy of the file that just got e-mailed to me?”

“On it, Boss”

Jones immediately started rounding up the rest of the team, and Peter continued past them toward the exit. Neal watched for a moment, confused, but Peter stopped just shy of the door and spoke briefly to the door guard. By the time Peter turned back towards him, Neal was already bounding up the stairs.

In the conference room, Neal dropped into the first chair inside the door and waited impatiently for everyone else to arrive. As the rest of the team trickled in, he speculated as to what their new case might be, and whose imminent arrival Peter had just cleared with the door guard.

Peter walked into the conference room just as Diana entered from his office carrying a few printed sheets of paper. Peter joined Diana at the far end of the room where the white board was, and she handed off the papers and took a seat.

“There’s been an art heist at the Channing Museum.” Peter turned and stuck three printed pictures up on the white board. “Several paintings were on loan from the Eastin Museum in London, for the Channing’s exhibit on…” Peter looked down at the remaining papers in his hands and read, “Vermeer and his Sphere of Influence. The exhibit ended this weekend, and three of the paintings were being returned to the Eastin today. Armed robbers hit the Channing this afternoon just before the van arrived to take the paintings to the airport. They got away with two of the three paintings.” Peter paused for a moment and looked around at his team. “Our job is to catch the guys who did this, and-”

A familiar voice interrupted Peter from the doorway behind Neal, “And recover the stolen paintings.”

Neal swiveled his chair around to face the owner of the voice. “Sara Ellis.”

“Neal,” Sara replied briefly.

Neal continued swiveling around in a full circle as Sara walked past him and greeted Peter and the rest of the team. As he turned, his mind flashed back to their last meeting, eight months ago, that morning at his apartment. He didn’t think Sara had any idea how much it meant to him, to possess a copy of Kate’s last words. He **owed** Sara, for giving him that FAA tape. He wasn’t sure yet how he could pay her back for what she’d done. But Neal wasn’t going anywhere for the next few years, so he had plenty of time to figure something out.

As Neal swung back around to face the table, he inquired aloud, “So, Sterling Bosch insures the Lacemakers?”

“Just the Vermeer,” Sara replied.

“What?” asked Jones.

“All three paintings are entitled, The Lacemaker,” explained Neal. “By Johannes Vermeer, Caspar Netscher, and Salvador Dali.” Then Neal leaned forward and asked, “Wait, Peter, you said the robbers only got away with two of the three paintings? Which two?”

“The ones painted by Vermeer and…” Peter consulted his papers again. “And Netscher.”

“That doesn’t make sense. I mean, the Vermeer is worth tens of millions. Sara?”

“It’s insured with Sterling Bosch for $70 million,” said Sara, a trifle smugly.

“And the Dali is worth about a million,” continued Neal. “But the Netscher? It’s only worth about 1% of that. Who steals a painting worth ten grand when there’s a Dali sitting next to it?”

“Well, that’s what we need to figure out, isn’t it?” Diana looked ready for the challenge.

“So, uh, which painting is which?” Jones still looked a little confused.

“Vermeer and Netscher were contemporaries.” Sara pointed to the first two pictures in turn. “Both painted primarily interior scenes in the 17th century.”

“The Golden Age of Dutch painting,” Neal mused fondly. “But Vermeer’s technique is way better--” Neal brightened as he extolled, “his attention to detail…his depiction of light and shadow…”

“I don’t know,” said Peter with a shrug, “They look about the same to me. They’re both paintings of a young woman making lace, right?” Neal grimaced and shook his head slightly but Peter pointed at the third picture and continued, “But what is **that**? It’s…” Peter struggled to find the right words to describe the Dali painting. “It’s just weird.”

“Vermeer and the whole Dutch art movement fell out of favor not long after he died,” Neal explained, “But they were eventually ‘rediscovered’, and in the 20th century, Dali became obsessed with Vermeer’s The Lacemaker, and eventually created his own version of it.”

Peter considered the three paintings in turn. “But that one doesn’t look anything like the other two.”

“Peter, Dali was a Surrealist…”

While Neal happily expounded on the art, Sara also found herself recalling their last meeting. She doesn’t trust a thing Neal says when he’s smiling, but he had been uncharacteristically somber, that morning at his apartment. She still wasn’t entirely sure why she had given Neal that FAA tape. And she was even less sure that she had done the right thing. And Sara Ellis did **not** like feeling unsure of herself. Not. At. All.

“I don’t have time for the art lesson this week, _Caffrey_ ,” Sara interrupted Neal. “We need to **find** these paintings, not write a Master’s thesis on them.”

Neal recoiled ever-so-slightly, and as every eye in the room swung from Neal to Sara, Sara flushed slightly and looked away.

And into the awkward silence, Peter dropped, “Just a minute, Neal. When did you see the Vermeer exhibit?” His voice grew more serious. “The Channing is outside your radius.”

Neal, stung by Sara’s criticism, replied without thinking, “Oh, I saw the Lacemakers several years ago when they were on display at the Eastin Museum in London.”

At this, Sara almost visibly snapped back into ‘work mode’, and in one smooth motion, reached into her purse, pulled out her recorder and flipped it on as she extended it towards Neal. “And would that be the same trip on which you stole the Raphael from the London Museum?”

“ **Allegedly** stole,” retorted Neal, and flashed her a big grin.

“All right kids,” Peter interrupted. “Let’s focus on the case at hand for now. Sara, we’re going to go check out the crime scene. I’ll give you a call if we find anything that you can help us out with.”

Sara buried the recorder in her purse, and replied shortly, “I’ll be back tomorrow morning,” before stalking out of the conference room and out of the Bureau.


	2. Monday afternoon at the Channing Museum

The drive to the Channing was quiet, until they ran into road construction within sight of their goal. Then Peter groaned, “I thought this car was supposed to be able to find a way around the traffic.”

“Awww, don’t blame the Taurus, Peter,” teased Neal. “With Central Park on one side, and all the one-way streets in the area, this is really the only way to approach the museum.”

When they reached the Channing, Peter pulled the car up beside the NYPD barricades blocking the alley next to the museum. “Jones, Diana, head down to the crime scene. We’re working jointly with the NYPD on this one. Find out who’s in charge and what’s going on.” Peter nodded towards the alley, while heading towards the front entrance.

“Sure thing, boss,” replied Diana. “But, aren’t you coming with us?”

“I need to talk to the curator first.”

At this, Neal froze. “I’ll just go with them, then,” and he turned to follow Jones and Diana.

“You’re with me, Neal.”

“Is that really such a good idea, Peter?”

Much as Peter enjoyed watching Neal squirm, he took pity on his partner and explained, “Walter retired six months ago. We’re meeting with the new curator of the Channing,” and with that he started up the wide steps leading to the Greek-columned façade of the Channing Museum.

“Oh. Well, why didn’t you say so?” As Neal followed, he automatically scanned the surrounding scene. Across the street was the edge of Central Park. Benches lined the path along the street, and on this beautiful spring day, almost every seat was taken. Mothers sat while their children played, businessmen read newspapers, and tourists gawked at the steady stream of walkers, skateboarders, and bicyclists taking advantage of the smooth paths. As Neal climbed the stairs, old habit drew his eyes to the hidden security cameras, easily calculating their angles and coverage.

At the top of the steps, they found the museum doors locked tight, but Peter’s knocking brought a quick response from inside, as a security guard unlocked and opened the door for them.

The ceiling in the main foyer stretched two stories above them, and several arched openings led off in different directions. A woman wearing a suit, her dark graying hair pulled back in a bun, greeted them. “Agent Burke? I’m sorry about that; we closed the museum down as soon as the theft occurred.”

Peter had nodded in response to his name. “Dr. Rodriguez? Don’t worry about it.”

“Please, call me Helen.” The curator turned to Neal. “And Agent…?”

“Not an Agent,” Peter short-circuited Neal’s sure-to-be-charming greeting. “This is my art consultant, Neal Caffrey. Dr. Rodriguez, what can you tell us about the heist?”

“I can’t believe it happened.” Dr. Rodriguez shook her head, then squared her shoulders and ushered them towards one of the arched doorways and a long hallway lined with Greek and Roman statues.

“I hired extra security for the duration of the exhibit. But the show ended on Sunday, and we immediately began packing up. It can take several weeks to fully dismantle an exhibit and return all the paintings to their home museums, but I wanted to start quickly.”

The curator led the way briskly down the hallway, past doorways opening onto rooms filled with paintings. Neal’s steps lagged, as he tried to take in as much art as possible, while still listening to Peter and Dr. Rodriguez.

“The first paintings we packed up were the Eastin’s own paintings,” explained Dr. Rodriguez.

“The Lacemakers,” Peter confirmed.

“Yes. To be followed later this week by the other paintings they’d lent us, and then by two of the Channing’s own Vermeers, for the Eastin to put on a similar exhibit. It was the first in a series of mutual exchanges I had arranged with the Eastin. Next, they were going to send us La Pastorale, for our exhibit on Matisse’s influences.”

Upon hearing ‘Matisse’, Neal quickly caught up. “Oooh, I’ve been wanting to see La Pastorale.” In response to Peter’s questioning look, Neal shrugged, eyebrows raised, “It wasn’t on display the last time I was at the Eastin.”

“It may not happen now. I can’t imagine my counterpart at the Eastin will be eager to send more art to a museum with security issues.” Dr. Rodriguez frowned. “This whole project could be over before it begins.”

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” said Neal with a reassuring smile.

“These paintings should be on display for the world to see,” said the curator, passionately, “not buried in some criminal’s stash.”

Neal paused just a beat, before saying, with conviction, “Absolutely.”

Peter stifled a grin and asked, “Dr. Rodriguez, is there anything else you can tell us about your security procedures?”

Dr. Rodriguez stopped in front of a door labeled ‘Employees Only’ and pulled out a jingling key ring. “The paintings were being held through here while they awaited transportation to the airport. They were packed into small custom-built wooden crates, with no markings on the outside to indicate which crate held which painting. And of course we had GPS tracking devices attached to the crates and to the frames. But nothing on the paintings themselves.” And with that, she unlocked the door and waved Peter and Neal through.

They found themselves in a short hallway, at the end of which, a door stood propped open to the alley. In the wedge of light coming in through the doorway lay an open wooden crate. The lid, bristling with staples and bent nails, lay next to the base; an empty frame lay a short distance away. A man in an NYPD uniform knelt next to the broken crate, carefully swabbing each bit of protruding metal.

“Hoping the thieves left some skin or blood behind?” asked Peter.

“Yes. Haven’t found anything yet, though.”

Dr. Rodriguez led Peter and Neal past the empty crate and out the door. Compared to the hallway, the alley was bright and seemed to be swarming with police officers, dusting and swabbing for fingerprints and any other evidence the thieves may have left behind. Peter saw Diana across the alley talking to the ranking NYPD officer on the scene, and spotted Jones near her with a small group of museum employees.

On the ground just outside the door lay two more wooden crates. One of them gaped open and empty, just like the one inside. But the lid of the final box was loose and splintered down the middle, but otherwise remained attached.

“So they tried for the all three paintings, but couldn’t get the third crate open,” Peter surmised.

“The Dali is still in there?” Neal’s eyebrows raised.

“Yes. And Yes,” answered Dr. Rodriguez. “I’d really like to move it indoors as soon as possible.”

“Just as soon as the NYPD finishes collecting evidence,” promised Peter. “But first, I’d like to talk to the witnesses.”

“There were three.” Jones appeared at Peter’s side. “Witnesses, that is. I’ve got them right over here.” Jones explained as he led them across the alley, “We’ve got one guy who was watching the video camera feeds in the museum security room, and two guards who were with the paintings. The NYPD has already taken their initial statements, but I knew you’d want to talk to them yourself.”

“Thanks, Jones.”

“Hello. I’m Agent Burke, FBI.” As Peter awkwardly introduced himself to the witnesses, Diana walked over with the NYPD officer she’d been speaking with, and Peter realized that it was Captain Shattuck. The two men exchanged a short nod of long familiarity, and Peter continued, “Why don’t you talk me through what happened this afternoon.”

A stocky man with rusty red hair stepped forward and started, “I’m Ron Stevens. I was on duty in the security room, watchin’ the video feeds from all the security cameras. I was keepin’ an eye on Marty and Timmy and the paintings in the back hallway, but we’ve got more security cameras ‘round the museum than monitors in the security room, so I was flippin’ through the feeds like we always do. Everything was pretty quiet this afternoon, ‘cept the van was running late.” Ron shrugged and looked to the two museum guards to take up the story.

The younger guard was blond, tall and lanky, and introduced himself as Timothy Harris-Young. “We’d been waiting for the van for, like, forever, and it was supposed to be our lunch break. When Ron called Marty on the walkie-talkie to say that the van was getting pretty close, I just, uh,” The young man paused briefly and shot a nervous glance at Ron, then at Dr. Rodriguez, then continued, more carefully, “I just opened the back door to see if I could see it yet. I’m sorry. I didn’t think…” He shot a nervous _help-me_ glance at his fellow guard as his voice trailed off.

“I can’t believe you opened the door,” replied Martin, shaking his head. The second guard was older, shorter, and slightly balding. “I should’ve just closed it and locked you out there.” To Peter, he explained, “Door’s supposed to stay closed and locked until the van actually arrives…I’m Martin Delbright.” Then he shifted back a bit and let his younger co-worker continue.

“I was gonna come right back in,” Timmy insisted to Martin. And then to the rest of the crowd, “But these three guys on bicycles were coming down the alley. Looked like bike messengers.”

“How so? Can you describe them?” asked Peter.

“They were all carrying messenger bags,” Timmy declared. “And wearing some sorta uniform. Dark blue, with some logo on it?” He sounded less sure of this, and again glanced at Martin for help.

“They were wearing baseball caps and sunglasses, too. We never really saw their faces,” admitted Martin reluctantly.

“The first and last guys were about normal size, but the middle guy was big!” Timmy held his skinny arms out slightly and flexed to illustrate his point. “Anyways, I just walked out a few steps to try and wave them off ‘cause it’s a dead-end. But they kept coming.”

“The guy in the lead rolled right up to me at the back door,” explained Martin. “Said they’d got lost and needed directions. And then he pulled out a gun.” Martin stopped, and took a deep breath as Timmy said, “All three of ‘em did. It was-” he paused. “It wasn’t…” he floundered.

“They grabbed Timmy and duct-taped over his mouth. I tried to…” Martin shook his head, “but the lead guy told me don’t move or yell or he’d shoot Tim.” Martin’s voice rose in remembered protest. “And then the big guy just tossed Timmy into the garbage dumpster.” He pointed back across the alley, to where the dumpster’s contents were now being carefully catalogued by the NYPD. “It all happened so fast.”

“I should’ve done something,” added Timmy plaintively.

“No!” exclaimed Dr. Rodriguez. “You did the right thing. They had guns. As valuable as the art is, it’s not worth risking a life.”

Peter turned to Ron Stevens and asked, pointedly, “And you were watching all of this on the security monitors?”

“No!” answered Ron. “I mean, I was goin’ through the other video feeds. I can’t have looked away for even a minute,”

Neal muttered quietly, “Hey, if you’re good, a minute’s all you need,” and Peter shot him a quelling look.

“But when I flipped back to the alley cam, I saw Marty flying into the dumpster. So I called the nearest guards on the Walkie to run help,” continued Ron. “And then I saw this guy come out the door of the museum with the two wooden crates, and I realized they were robbin’ the place! I called the cops on my cell, and more guards on the Walkie. And I ran for the back door. I got there just as the other guards did, but we couldn’t get the door open. It was jammed, somehow.”

“So nobody was watching the security monitors?” Peter asked incredulously. “What actually happened to the art?”

“As soon as we got here and got the crime scene secured, I went and took a look at the video feeds from the hallway and the alley,” volunteered Captain Shattuck. “Looks like the lead guy ducked into the museum while the other two were still dealing with the guards. He had a crowbar and some other tools in his bag, and he made short work of the first crate he grabbed. That was the Vermeer, and he wrapped it up, slid it into his messenger bag, and grabbed the other two crates.”

“So he found the most valuable painting on his first guess?” Diana shook her head.

“Yes,” replied Capt. Shattuck. “Then, out in the alley, while the lead guy and the big guy worked on opening those two crates, the third guy went and hammered these little wedges around the doorframe.”

“That’s why we couldn’t get the door open,” defended Ron.

“There’s no audio,” Capt. Shattuck pointed out, “but up to that point it didn’t even look like they were talking to each other. It’s like they had the whole thing choreographed. But while the lead guy broke the second painting-“

“The Netscher,” added Dr. Rodriguez.

“-out of its crate, the big guy had trouble with his.” Capt. Shattuck continued, “And then I could see the third guy yell, and wave for them to come. The Netscher got slid into the third guy’s messenger bag, the big guy finally abandoned his efforts, and they all grabbed their bikes and tore up the alley and out of view of the camera. And just then, the van finally pulled into view.”

“So they knew the van was about to arrive,” said Neal half-to-himself just as Peter asked, “Did the men in the van notice which way the thieves went?”

“No,” said Capt. Shattuck regretfully. “The cyclists sped right past them, but they didn’t think anything of it until they got a little further into the alley and realized what had happened.”

“We finally got the back door open just about when they drove up,” said Ron, “and we got some bolt cutters for the lock on the dumpster. And by then the police were arriving.”

“All right,” Peter vented a short breath, “is there anything else you can think of that we should know?”

“They were Russian! The accent, y’know,” blurted out Timmy. “So, um, can we go now?”

Peter exchanged a look with Captain Shattuck and said, “Yes. But don’t leave town; we may have more questions for you later.”

“Thank you,” added Dr. Rodriguez to the departing men, “I’ll see you all at work tomorrow.”

“So, we’re looking for a three-man team,” said Capt. Shattuck.

“Or maybe more than three…” added Peter, glancing significantly after the departing men.

“Are you thinking it may have been an inside job, boss?” asked Diana

“I would hate to think that any of my people had anything to do with this,” worried Dr. Rodriguez.

“How many people knew the details of your plan for returning the Lacemakers today?” asked Peter.

“Oh, the whole security team, most of the staff at both the Channing and the Eastin, the transport company… It was no secret that I wanted things done more efficiently,” explained the curator.

“I’m going to need you to put together a list of names.”

“Anything I can do to help.”

As Dr. Rodriguez walked away, Jones ventured to Peter, “You think Dr. Rodriguez could be our inside man…ahem…woman?”

“Mmmm, my gut says no.”

Neal agreed, adding, “This is her first big project as curator of the Channing. She’s got too much invested in these exchanges to have any motive to jeopardize them.

“Still,” continued Peter, “We’ll look into everyone on the list. Starting with our three witnesses.”

“They all broke museum protocol in ways that contributed to the crime,” Diana pointed out. “The question is—were any of them actually complicit?”

“Not necessarily,” said Neal. “Too many people knew about the curator’s plan. If our thieves did their homework, they should have been able to plan this heist without needing an inside man.

“Yeah, but what about the door?” Jones countered. “If the younger guard hadn’t opened it…”

“The Russians had a plan to keep the door shut when they needed to.” Neal shrugged. “They may well have had a plan for opening the door, too. And just ended up not needing it. No job ever goes entirely according to plan…” Neal added ruefully.

“All right, Neal,” Peter started, “You’re our expert. How would you-“ Peter stopped, then turned to Capt. Shattuck. “Would you excuse us for a minute?” They walked a short ways towards the street, out of earshot of the various NYPD officers, and Peter finished his question, “How would you have pulled this off?”

“This was a professional job.” Neal sounded impressed. “Nobody saw their faces, they moved fast, and they knew when it was time to go. I know, I know, they only got away with two of the paintings. But the important point is—they got away. On bicycles!” Neal was grinning now. “You gotta admit, that’s pretty good.”

“No, I don’t gotta admit-” retorted Peter.

“Anyways,” continued Neal, “Their whole plan relied on perfect timing. A team of amateurs would have kept trying for the Dali. And then gotten caught when the armed guards arrived with the van. No, for them to leave when they did, they had to know the van was coming. Before they could see it.”

“You think they had a lookout?” The way Peter said it, it wasn’t really a question.

“I would have.” Neal looked up the alley towards the park. “And there’s the perfect place to sit. Nobody thinks twice about a person, sitting in the park, enjoying the sun…”

“…Watching for the van to get past the road construction,” Peter nodded. “This is good.”

“But unless we can ID the lookout, this isn’t getting us any closer to catching our thieves,” protested Diana. “And the security cameras by the back door don’t even cover the entrance to the alley, let alone the park across the street.”

“But the cameras at the front of the museum do,” Neal pointed out proudly. “Although there’s this one blind spot, but if you don’t mind doing a little climbing-” Neal stopped as Peter’s eyes narrowed, then he shrugged unrepentantly and said, “What? I notice these things.”

Peter took a deep breath, and possibly counted to ten under his breath before saying, “All right. Jones, I want you to focus on the Museum staff; let me know if any of them looks like a good candidate for an inside man. Diana, I want you to keep liaising with Captain Shattuck—make sure we know about everything the NYPD finds in this alley.”

“What about us, Peter?” Neal asked brightly.

“ **I** am going to confiscate all the security tapes; we’ll see if the FBI tech department can turn up any more evidence. Or any discrepancies in our witnesses story…or the lookout.” Neal grinned at Peter’s roundabout compliment.

“And I want **you** ,” said Peter, “to talk to your contacts. See if the little guy knows anything about who pulled this off, and if they’re shopping the art. I want to know where these guys went after they left this alley.”

“You know,” Neal shoved his hands in his pockets, “The cameras out front might help with that, too.”

And so they all trooped back into the museum and down the long hallway to the security room. They cued up the tapes from the front entrance, and together they watched the three thieves fly out of the alley and dodge across traffic to the park….where they immediately blended in with all the other cyclists taking advantage of the beautiful weather, and the many paths that criss-crossed Central Park.


	3. Tuesday morning at the FBI

Tuesday morning found Neal at his desk, again reviewing old case files. Except this time, at Peter’s request, he was searching for any crimes with an MO matching their bicycle thieves’. The whole team had spent most of the morning at their desks, working hard at their assigned tasks. But from his vantage point by the door, Neal had watched Peter leave and return several times, to consult with the tech department two floors down. Jones had gone back to the Channing to meet with Dr. Rodriguez, and had returned with a stack of employee files to inspect for possible signs of an inside man. And Diana had left not long ago to meet with Captain Shattuck down at NYPD headquarters.

Neal had expected Sara to arrive bright and early, but the late-morning meeting that Peter had scheduled was almost upon them and still no Sara. Just then, Diana breezed in, looking a bit like the cat with the canary, carrying a stack of papers sandwiched around a plastic evidence bag.

“Diana!” Neal jumped up from his desk. “So, NYPD found something?”

Diana nodded confirmation as she passed Neal, but she pulled her sandwiched evidence away from Neal’s reaching hands, taunting, “Nuh-uh! You’re gonna to have to wait and see this with everyone else. Meeting starts in five.”

“Aw, c’mon, Diana, you can show me.” Neal’s eyes followed Diana, hoping to catch a glimpse of her prize.

“Not a chance, Neal.” Diana tossed a grin over her shoulder and headed up the stairs to Peter’s office.

Neal heard a thud from behind him, and turned to see Sara shoving the door open with one elbow, trying to edge through with a large cardboard file box in her arms.

“Morning, Sara,” said Neal brightly, as he hurried back to the door.

“Neal.” Sara’s tone did not invite further conversation.

“Here, let me help you with that,” said Neal, reaching for the box.

But Sara just glared at him and twisted away slightly, still stuck in the doorway.

So Neal pulled the second door open for her, instead, freeing her to sail right on through.

“You’re welcome,” muttered Neal to her rapidly departing back before reaching out to tap the bust of Socrates on his desk and then casually sauntering after.

Neal quickened his pace when he saw that Diana and Peter were outside Peter’s office, clearly discussing Diana’s new-brought evidence. But by the time Neal caught up with Sara at the top of the stairs, all he heard of their conversation was Diana reassuring Peter, “I can do that, Boss,” before she entered the conference room.

Peter took one look at Sara’s expression and stood aside to let her enter the conference room before him. Then he sent Neal a questioning look. “She’s mad,” Peter observed mildly. “Any idea why?”

“Nope.”

Half-joking, Peter asked, “Did you break into her house again, Neal?”

“No!”

“Hmmmmm, let’s keep it that way.”

—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—

In the conference room, Neal sat near the door again, with the file box on a chair between himself and Sara. Jones was across from Neal, his stack of employee files on the table before him, and Diana and her mystery evidence sat across from Sara.

Peter called the meeting to order. “All right people. We’ve got two missing paintings and three unidentified thieves. Our tech department managed to enhance the video footage of the crime, but our thieves were careful.” Peter frowned. “We don’t have a clean shot of any of their faces.”

“These are the best we’ve got.” Peter gestured to the white board, where a number of new pictures had joined the artwork. There was one photo showing all three thieves on their bicycles, plus close-ups of each man. Or rather, close-ups of their sunglasses and the brims of their caps, with bits of nose, mouth, chin, and ear showing.

“They knew to keep their heads down, with the cameras overhead,” Neal observed.

“Unfortunately,” said Jones.

Diana turned to Peter. “Can we run them through facial recognition?”

“Already tried.” Peter shook his head. “We can’t ID our thieves with just the partial faces we have right now. But if we can get a lead on their lookout, or the inside man, we may be able to use them to lead us back to the thieves.”

“And the art,” Sara added sharply.

Peter nodded to Sara and repeated, “And the art,” before continuing, “We did pick up two new things from the video footage. The first: Mr. Harris-Young-“

“The younger museum guard,” Jones interjected, shuffling through the stack of employee files in front of him, “The one who opened the door.”

“Yes,” replied Peter. “He said that he only walked out into the alley to wave off the bicyclists. But on the tape, he waved a little bit just as soon as he walked out the door. **Before** he started waving at the bicyclists.”

“He was signaling to someone?” Diana reached out and adjusted the stack of papers covering the evidence bag in front of her.

“Maybe he was just waving to someone in the park,” suggested Neal. “Peter, did you see anyone on the front entrance security tapes that Timmy might have been waving to?

“Ah, I did take a look at the video footage, but,” Peter shrugged a little. “Well, there are a lot of cameras on the front of the museum. And a lot of people in that park yesterday afternoon. So I, ah, gave everything to the tech department; they’re looking at all of it now.”

“Aw,” Neal teased, “too much to sort through all by yourself, Peter?”

“Nooooo,” Peter denied with a grin, “No. I just don’t want to put our tech department out of work.”

“Wait,” Sara interrupted, “if this Mr. Harris-Young lied about what happened in the alley, who knows what all else he’s been lying about. If he’s the inside man, why waste time on the lookout or anything else?” Sara continued, her voice rising, “Why don’t you just bring him down here **now** and make him tell us what he knows?”

“Sara, if the evidence continues to point to Mr. Harris-Young, we will certainly pursue it,” said Peter. “But if we’re going to talk to Mr. Harris-Young again, I’d like to have a better idea of what questions to ask him. Plus, right now I want us to be considering **all** the possible angles; I’m not going to ignore any leads that might bring us closer to solving this case.”

Though Peter had spoken to Sara, during this last statement his eyes also flicked across the table to Diana, who pulled her hands back from yet again rearranging her stack of papers, and suddenly asked, “Wait, boss, you said there were two things?”

“Yes.” Peter gave Diana an approving nod. “When they enhanced the footage, they saw that the third thief was wearing a Bluetooth headset; it looks like someone may have called to tell him the van was coming, right before he yelled to the other two thieves that it was time to go. So our techs are looking for someone in the park, who had a clear view of the alley and the road, and who was talking on the phone during the heist.”

“The lookout,” said Neal with conviction.

“May be,” said Peter, then leaned forward a little, hands steepled on the tabletop. “Right now our thieves think they got away clean. We’re going to prove them wrong.”  


—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—

“All right,” said Peter, looking around the table, “Neal, what’ve you got?”

“Nothing yet.” Neal frowned. “No case files featuring a three-man Russian team, or a bicycle getaway.” Neal tilted his head slightly. “And as of last night, my…contact hadn’t heard anything either. He’s still putting out feelers, talking to… Well, he’s talking to his various sources. Said he’d get back to me before noo-”

The strident ring of a phone cut through the air, and everyone flinched slightly. Sara snatched her phone out of her purse and, after a glance at the caller ID, stabbed the phone to silence.

“Not gonna answer that?” asked Neal.

“It’s just my boss.” Sara glowered as she dropped the offending phone on the tabletop. “I don’t want to waste any more time talking to him. If he has anything important to say, he can leave a message.”

As a chorus of eyebrows shot up around the room, “I just **came** from Sterling Bosch,” Sara explained. “I went in this morning to dig up any information that might relate to this case.” She nodded towards the cardboard box. “Sterling Bosch hasn’t heard any chatter yet, either. Nothing from their network of confidential informants. No anonymous tips…”

“Anonymous tips?” asked Diana incredulously.

“Sterling Bosch official policy,” said Sara, her voice heavy with disapproval. “They care more about finding the stolen art than about being able to prosecute those who stole it.”

“What about you?” Neal teased. “If you **had** to pick between catching the bad guys and recovering the art, which would you choose?”

“Both!” retorted Sara. “My co-workers,“ she spit the word out like it tasted bad, “think I take this all a little too personally.”

Neal muttered, “Perish the thought,” under his breath, which earned him a glare from Sara and a quiet snort of laughter from Jones.

Sara conceded, “They’ll do whatever it takes to recover the stolen art. But when it comes to catching those who stole it, they’re content to sit on the sidelines and let other people do the heavy lifting. Or let the criminals go free, if it gives them a better chance at the art.” Sara paused to look around the room. “Me? I just want to see justice done.” Sara shrugged and smiled a little, correcting herself, “Well, not just **see**. I want to be a part of the action.”

The FBI agents were all nodding and smiling slightly, feeling the same way themselves.

“Art belongs in museums where everyone has a chance to see it,” Sara began, inadvertently echoing the curator’s words from the previous day.

“Oh, Neal **absolutely** agrees with you,” joked Peter, for Neal’s benefit.

But Sara continued, talking over him, “…and art thieves belong in prison, for taking that chance away,” Sara concluded decisively. Then she turned to Neal with a glare. “How long has it been since anyone other than you got to enjoy the Raphael?”

Neal’s eyes widened involuntarily, then he quickly pasted his widest, most _innocent_ smile on his face. But as Neal drew breath to answer Sara, he was interrupted by a quiet buzz from his jacket.

Neal slid his phone out of his pocket and checked the caller ID, then looked down the table to Peter and said, “Moz. I’m gonna take this,” before ducking out of the conference room.

—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—

“Moz, what’ve you got?” said Neal quietly.

“I’ve been poking around, just like you asked, giving my associates a chance to brag about yesterday’s heist, implying that I might be in the market for Dutch masters…”

“And?”

“I’ve got nothing, man,” admitted Mozzie. “I don’t know who these guys are, but they’re good. Professional. It takes a tight-knit crew to keep a job like this quiet.”

“Yeah…” Neal’s voice trailed off as he glanced over his shoulder and through the glass wall of the conference room, then quickly away as he found Peter looking straight at him.

“I haven’t talked to all my contacts yet,” Mozzie continued. “I’ll keep looking.”

“Okay…great.” Neal glanced carefully over his shoulder again. Peter was half-turned away from him, pointing toward something on the whiteboard.

“Neal?” asked Mozzie, picking up on Neal’s distraction. “Is there… anything else you need help with?”

“Actually, I may need you to do a little more digging.”

“Of course, mon frère.”

Neal watched Sara tilt her phone up to check the screen again then let it drop back to the tabletop. “There’s something bothering Sara. Something other than this case.”

“And she’s taking it out on you?” surmised Mozzie.

Neal shrugged, though he knew Mozzie couldn’t see it over the phone. “I **am** the easy target in the room.”

“What can I do to help?”

“You remember that perky assistant at Sterling Bosch?” Neal asked. “The one who confirmed when the FAA tape was delivered to Sara?”

“Of **course** I do, since I have perfect recall! I liked her.”

“Why don’t you give her another call,” suggested Neal. “See if you can get her going on office gossip.”

“I can do that,” said Mozzie cautiously. “But Neal. When it comes to Sara. I think it might be better to just leave well enough alone.”

“You know I can’t.” Neal half-shrugged again. “I owe her, Moz.”

“All right,” Mozzie grumbled, “I’ll make the call.”

—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—

As soon as Neal walked through the conference room door, Peter looked up expectantly. “Well? Any word?”

“No, nothing.” Neal shook his head. “Which is unusual, with a big job like this. In the average three-man crew-“

“Or four-man,” put in Jones, eyeing his stack of museum employee files.

“Or five,” added Diana.

Neal acknowledged this with a nod and continued, “-there’s always someone who can’t keep their mouth shut.”

“So we’re dealing with an above-average crew, then,” concluded Peter.

“Well, I can think of a couple explanations for why they’re keeping this so quiet.” Diana looked to Peter, who nodded for her to continue. “Option One: If they’re not trying to shop the art right now, it could mean they had a buyer lined up beforehand.”

“You think someone commissioned the heist?” Sara asked, then turned to dig into her cardboard file box.

Neal leaned over to peer into the box, saying ruefully, “That doesn’t happen nearly as often as you’d think.”

Sara shot Neal a glance, and, after pulling several files out, clamped the lid back onto the box and turned to Peter. “I did a little research this morning at work. On known admirers of the Dutch Masters. I pulled the files on a few people who might like to own a Vermeer enough to not care how legally it was acquired. People who have been on Sterling Bosch’s radar for some time, but we’ve never **quite** been able to officially tie to any art crimes.”

Sara slapped the first file down on the table. “An investment banker living in Moscow.” A second file joined the first. “A doctor in London.” Sara held a particularly thick file above the others. “A convicted felon living in Manhattan.” She turned and looked pointedly at Neal before letting the file drop with a thud.

Neal started to say, “Sara, I-“, but Peter held up a hand and stopped him.

Peter explained patiently, “Sara, the heist happened during the day. Neal was right here in the FBI building when it happened.”

Neal grinned, leaned back, and raised his eyebrows at Sara as if to say, “Take that!”

“That doesn’t mean he wasn’t in on the planning,” retorted Sara.

As Peter shook his head, Neal teased, “You think I was the brains behind the operation? Sara, you flatter me.”

Peter shot Neal a glance and warned, “Neal…”

Sara dismissed Neal with a bare glance, but demanded of Peter, “So, you’re just trusting that he had nothing to do with this?”

“No,” He started, then stopped. Peter felt in his gut that Neal wasn’t involved in the heist, but even **he** wasn’t sure why he was so sure.

Into the expectant silence, Jones whispered to Diana, “Don’t bet against the gut.” And Diana suppressed a chuckle. Peter knew his team had learned to trust him, but he could tell they were curious, too.

After a case was over, Peter could usually puzzle out what bits of evidence his brain had put together, to jump to the conclusions it did. But now, for Sara’s sake, and for the rest of his team, he struggled to put his instincts into words.

“I‘ve studied Neal for years; I know his style as well as anyone. And he doesn’t plan crimes for other people to commit.”

Diana and Jones looked thoughtful at this, as though they were paging through their mental Caffrey-files. Neal looked a little proud of himself, but Sara wasn’t ready to give up her theory yet.

Peter, still struggling for words, looked back and forth between the skeptical Sara and the smiling Neal. Then suddenly Peter’s face lightened, and a little grin ghosted across his face.

“In fact,” explained Peter, “you could even say that he’s ‘not content to sit on the sidelines.’ Or that he ‘likes to be a part of the action’.”

Sara was not pleased to have her own words thrown back in her face, and clearly did not want to admit to any similarities between herself and the conman. Neal, predictably, was grinning up a storm. And Diana and Jones weren’t even bothering to hide their amusement.

“It’s not that Neal isn’t capable of planning a shenanigan like this.” Peter turned away from Sara just long enough to shoot a frown at the still-grinning Neal. “But if he had, he’d have been right in the middle of it.”

This indictment dented Neal’s pleasure not at all.

Peter exhaled heavily, and extended an olive branch to Sara. “Why don’t you give me your list of possible heist commissioners; I’ll make sure the FBI checks them out.”

—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—

“Well,” said Diana heartily, “I’m hoping it’s Option Two, anyways: They’re keeping quiet because they’ve got a good place to hide the art while they wait for things to cool off.” This statement earned Diana some confused looks, but Diana just shrugged. “If they’re laying low, that gives us time.”

“Time to ID their inside man or their lookout, and use them to find the thieves before they move the art.” Peter said briskly, “Jones, what’ve you found on the museum employees?”

“Well, Dr. Rodriguez released the full personnel files for all the employees on her list. Including background checks, employment history, credit information… She also shared what she knows about them, personally.” Jones opened the top folder in the stack and consulted his notes. “No criminal records, and none of them is in any more debt than you’d expect—Harris-Young is working to put himself through night school; Delbright’s got a wife and three kids; Mr. Stevens is a little behind on his car payments.”

“Money’s always a motive,” said Neal, “but you don’t just go shopping for an inside man in the employee directory. If there is an inside man, he’ll be connected to our thieves somehow.”

Jones nodded. “I’ve already started putting together a Friends and Family list for each suspect. See if they’re linked to anyone in the FBI database. I haven’t turned up anything incriminating. Yet.”

Jones flipped the folder shut and tapped his fingers on its cover. “The only unusual thing so far—I called all three witnesses yesterday evening to confirm their contact info, and let ‘em know we’re watching. I reached Mr. Stevens, who was watching the security videos yesterday, and Mr. Delbright, the older guard. But Mr. Harris-Young didn’t pick up, and he never called back.” Jones sounded a little annoyed. “However, Dr. Rodriguez confirmed that everyone on her list showed up for work today, so I asked him about it, and he said he’d lost his phone.”

“Uh-huh!” Diana burst out. “And guess what the NYPD found at the bottom of that dumpster?” She whipped the evidence bag out from under her stack of papers and displayed, “A phone!”

Diana had everyone’s attention as she continued. “NYPD ID’d it this morning as Mr. Harris-Young’s.”

“Ah, you think it fell out of his pocket when he was in the dumpster?” asked Jones.

Diana shook her head decisively. “Not by accident, I don’t think. I think he ditched it to try and hide the evidence.”

By the puzzled looks the team was giving her, Diana realized she needed to back up and explain.

“See, NYPD checked the phone’s log.” Diana patted the packet of papers on the table before her. “Not a lot of calls, but there were plenty of texts, especially right before the heist.” She pulled the last page from the packet, flipped it around, and slapped it down flat on the table in front of her. “Here are the last few.”

Neal, Jones, and Sara leaned in, curious, but before they had time to translate the page of text-speak into regular English, Diana pointed to the last few lines and triumphantly explained, “The last text **to** Mr. Harris-Young reads, ’It’s Go Time’, and then his reply: ‘Van is late; I’m coming out.’”

Now Diana was getting the suspicious responses she wanted from Sara and Jones.

But Neal could tell by Peter’s lack of response that Diana had shown him the call log before the meeting started. And while Diana was well on her way to being convinced of Timmy’s guilt, Peter clearly wasn’t.

Taking advantage of the fact that Diana was focused on the final page of texts, Neal reached across the table, slid the rest of the packet out from under Diana’s arm, and started paging through it. She narrowed her eyes a bit, to let him know she’d noticed, but otherwise continued fielding Jones’ question about who Timmy was texting.

“We don’t know _who_ , exactly. But it was a burner phone, unregistered, bought on the street the day before.” Diana paused for effect. “And both phones were using the same cell tower. So whoever it was, they were nearby.”

“Oh, maybe in the park, you think?” Jones suggested.

Diana grinned in response, and Jones, cautiously impressed, said, “You may have found our inside man.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Neal, still paging through the packet of texts. “Most of these sound like they’re written by a bored kid, texting his girlfriend from work. Not some criminal mastermind.”

“Look,” Sara burst out, “they could be happily married for all I care. It doesn’t change the fact that,” And Sara proceeded to list her reasons, “he texted someone that the van was late, he opened the door for the thieves, and he signaled to whoever was watching out from the park! I seriously doubt he’s a mastermind, but he’s sure as hell more than just some bored kid!”

“I admit, it’s not looking good for Mr. Harris-Young,” said Peter, “but we need more evidence.”

Sara grimaced, and snuck a glance at her watch, but didn’t reply.

“Boss? If we need another way to connect Mr. Harris-Young to the heist...” Diana paused for a moment, then started again, “If Mr. Harris-Young is the inside man, he was most likely texting with the lookout in the park. So, is the tech department checking the video for someone texting, or just for someone talking on the phone?”

“Good. Yeah,” said Peter. “Let me find out.”

Peter pulled out his phone, dialed, and after a second said, “Me again. Yeah, we’ve got another question for you. There’s a chance the lookout may have been texting, not talking, so-“

Moments after being cut off, Peter said, “Oh!” then went silent again. But judging by his facial expressions, the tech department had good news for them. Confirmation came moments later when Peter said, “This is good. Have you run them through facial recognition yet?”

The whole team perked up a little at this, as everyone happily thought, “Suspects!”

“Okay,” said Peter, reaching for the remote control and turning on the video screen. “There’s nothing- Oh, yeah, we got it now. Thanks, Connie, we’ll take a look. Just let us know as soon as you get an ID for either of them.”

—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—

Three images had appeared on the video screen. The left-hand image took up two thirds of the screen, and two smaller images filled the right hand side, one above the other.

Peter explained, “The tech department cut together video from three different security cameras at the museum.”

The upper right part of the screen showed the back hallway of the museum—they could see the door to the alley, and the wooden crates containing the paintings. Martin Delbright sat in the lone chair, and Timmy Harris-Young leaned against a wall, his back to the camera, facing the closed door. The lower right image showed the empty alley right outside that door.

The largest image showed a view of Central Park just across the street from the alley. It centered on a park bench with two occupants—a businessman, with a Bluetooth in his ear, newspaper in his hand, briefcase at his feet; and a young blonde woman, with a white button-down shirt, a short black skirt, and long legs, staring intently at the phone in her hands, thumbs poised over its keypad.

Peter continued, “The tech department said these two are the best candidates for our lookout. They were both sitting on that bench well before the heist began. They had a view right down the alley. And they were in position to watch the van come through the street construction.”

Peter hit play, and the businessman shook his paper open and began to read. The open pages blocked much of his upper body, but as he turned the pages, glimpses of his face suggested that he was talking to someone on his Bluetooth.

The young blonde was hunched over her phone, texting furiously. After several minutes, she tucked her phone into her bag and stood up.

As the hallway video in the upper right-hand corner showed Timmy open the back door and exit the building, the young woman smiled and waved enthusiastically in the larger image, and Timmy returned her greeting more cautiously from the alley video in the lower right.

“So this is who he was communicating with,” said Diana. “She could be the lookout.”

“Or the girlfriend,” said Neal.

“Or both!” argued Sara.

Then, as Timmy’s attention was caught by the three bicyclists appearing in the alley, the young blonde blew him a kiss and turned and walked north, out of the camera shot.

“Wait,” said Jones, “she left before the van arrived?”

Peter paused the video and explained, “They’ve got her on another museum security camera, walking north towards the construction. We don’t have eyes on her all the way through the heist, but we’re pretty sure she still had a good view of the construction zone when the van was going past.”

“Well, we may not have eyes on her, but **he** does,” Jones joked. Then he explained, pointing at the screen, “Check our businessman. He looked up from his paper right when she stood up, and he doesn’t seem quite so interested in it now, does he?”

On the screen, the businessman’s paper had drooped, and his head was turned to the north.

Then Peter hit play, and they watched the businessman hitch up his paper, only to let it sag again moments later, revealing that he was still facing north, and still talking sporadically on his Bluetooth. Then he firmly snapped his paper open, and his face disappeared again from view.

Moments later, in the smaller two video images, the confrontation between the thieves and the guards ended with Timmy, then Martin, flying into the dumpster. Then the rapid acquisition of the paintings. And, on some unknown cue, the three bicyclists flew down the alley and swept into and out of the larger video image just as the van turned into the alley.

And finally, the businessman’s newspaper dipped again, as he lowered one arm to look at his watch. Then he folded his paper, picked up his briefcase, and walked south and out of view.

“And that’s it,” said Peter, setting down the remote.

There was a moment’s pause, then Diana made her case. “If Timmy Harris-Young was their inside man, it makes sense that the woman is the lookout.”

“Or Timmy’s girlfriend,” argued Neal, “in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Wrong place? We don’t know where she was or what she was doing during the actual heist, do we?” asked Sara accusingly.

“Peter, do we know if any of the buildings north of the museum have security cameras facing the street?” asked Jones.

“There are a couple of businesses and residential buildings just north of the museum. We’re working on getting any security footage they have from yesterday.”

“Well, if we ID our businessman first, we can always just ask him,” joked Jones.

“What if he wasn’t watching her?” Neal suggested thoughtfully. “What if he was watching for the van?”

Peter rewound the video, and they focused on the businessman after the young woman walked away.

“Hmmm,” said Jones, “they both had the same view of the alley, though we definitely know the businessman was talking on the phone.”

“The woman could easily have called the thieves after she started walking north,” argued Sara.

“And she was smart enough to do it out of range of the museum’s security cameras,” Diana pointed out. Then, seeing Peter’s look, added, “If she did it, that is.”

“A lookout should be in place throughout the entire job,” Neal critiqued, “not leaving partway through. The businessman left before the cops arrived, though, which is what you want to do, if you don’t want to risk being questioned.”

“But if he’s the lookout,” asked Sara, “then who’s the inside man?

Neal shrugged, and reiterated, “There doesn’t **have** to have been an inside man.”

“I’m not sure anything in these videos really points to one of them over the other,” said Jones.

“Can the tech department zoom in and see what the woman was texting?” asked Diana, “Or lip-read the businessman? That could tell us if either one is the lookout.”

“They’re still working on getting more detail out of the video,” said Peter. “But either way, I’m going to want to talk to both of them.”

“Yeah. But boss, while we’re waiting for their IDs to come back…” Diana picked up the remote and rewound the video back to Timmy waving at the girl in the park. “There are a lot of discrepancies in Timmy’s story. He lied about why he opened the door. He didn’t mention using, or losing, his phone. And he didn’t mention his girlfriend and her prepaid burner phone in the park.”

“Yeah. Because he’s trying to cover up their role in the heist,” muttered Sara heatedly.

And Neal muttered back, “Not necessarily.”

But Diana remained focused on Peter. “The texts, the videos…they’ve raised a lot of new questions,” she coaxed. Diana knew Peter wouldn’t be swayed by emotional outbursts, but cool logic might do the trick.

Peter pursed his lips and looked up at the video screen, clearly frustrated.

Diana gave Peter a moment to think, then asked, “Boss?”

Peter huffed out a breath, and made his decision. “Jones, get Mr. Harris-Young in here. I want to find out why he lied.”

Then Peter suggested, “Why don’t we get some lunch now, while we’ve got the time.”

—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—

Sara left immediately, taking her file box with her, and Peter walked over to the video screen, intending to turn the wall unit off. But the images on the screen caught his attention again, and he leaned back against the end of the table and stared up at the two young people frozen mid-wave.

“There’s something going on between those two,” said Peter, “but I’m just not convinced that Timmy is our inside man.”

Diana paused, partway to the door, and fought down the urge to argue her case yet again.

“Trust your gut.” Neal shrugged slightly as he came over to lean against the table next to Peter. Then he grinned. “After all, it’s smart enough to know that I’m completely innocent.”

“I did not say completely,” argued Peter.

As they bantered, Diana considered the figures on the video screen. Based on the mounting evidence, she thought it likely that Harris-Young was involved in the heist. But it wasn’t a joke; she really did trust Peter’s instincts. And when he had requested this morning that she keep an open mind, Diana had assured him that she could. And so she put aside her own theories, and tried to consider things from a different angle.

“I think you meant to,” continued Neal

“On this **one** case-” Peter tried to clarify.

“Oh, he did not say completely, Caffrey,” Diana asserted with a smirk. Then, taking a deep breath, she asked, “So, Peter, what does your gut say about our businessman?”

Peter gave her a slight nod, pleased that she was taking his request seriously, and all three of them looked back up at the video screen.

“He looks familiar,” Peter complained, “but I can’t place him.”

“He looks like our thieves,” Neal realized. “The bits of them we can see, that is.” The three of them looked over their shoulders to the pictures on the whiteboard at the other end of the room. Pictures of faces half-obscured by baseball caps and sunglasses.

“And we have a nice, clear picture of his face,” said Neal, as they all turned back to the video screen.

“Well,” said Diana, “if he’s someone we should know, facial recognition should ID him for us soon.”

“And while we wait to see if the techs can put a name to that face,” said Peter, “we’ll see what Mr. Harris-Young has to say for himself.”


	4. Tuesday afternoon at the FBI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters posted today. I'm still working on writing Chapter 5.

Peter stood with Neal, Sara, and Diana in the FBI bullpen, staring up through the glass walls of the conference room.

Timothy Harris-Young sat at the table, shoulders hunched slightly. His eyes darted around the room, and he occasionally glanced over his shoulder to where Jones stood guard by the windows. As they watched, Timmy picked up his Mets cap off the table and started bending the brim back and forth, back and forth.

Diana grinned. “You think we’ve let him stew long enough?”

“I do,” replied Peter, before heading up the stairs, carrying the printed phone log, yet again wrapped around the evidence bag holding Timmy’s phone.

“Do you think he’ll talk?” asked Sara. “If Peter can get Harris-Young to tell him where the thieves are, we could have this case wrapped up by the end of the day.”

“Please!” Diana scoffed. “Peter’ll get him to talk.”

“Of course,” Neal teased, “if Timmy is _really_ a criminal mastermind, he’ll play it cool…”

Peter closed the door of the conference room and addressed Mr. Harris-Young. “I asked you yesterday if there was anything else I should know. I think you forgot to mention a few things.” Peter turned on the video screen to reveal two pictures—the young blonde woman texting on the park bench, and Timmy, just outside the door of the museum, waving.

“I- I’m sorry!” Timmy blurted out. “I should have told you-“ then he stopped.

“Should have told me what?” Peter asked, voice carefully neutral.

Timmy hunched his shoulders a little more. “I know I shouldn’t’ve been texting at work, but Stacy, my girlfriend-“ Timmy glanced up at the video screen, “she only had a half-hour break for lunch, and then the stupid van was late so I couldn’t eat with her.” Timmy turned and said over his shoulder to Jones, “We were gonna have a picnic in the park.”

Timmy twisted back towards Peter and continued plaintively, “But then she had to go back to work, and I wasn’t even gonna get to **see** her. I just opened the door to wave to her before she left. And then I saw those guys on bikes. I didn’t know they were gonna rob the museum. I’m **sorry** …” By this time, Timmy was hunched over again, clutching his baseball cap with both hands.

Peter digested this information dump for a moment, then pulled out the evidence bag containing Timmy’s phone as he asked, “If she’s your girlfriend, why is she texting you from a burner phone?”

“Hey, my phone!” exclaimed Timmy happily, then, “Wait, what?”

Peter laid down the phone log and pointed out the burner phone number on the first page.

“Oh, that. Stacy lost her phone over the weekend. She ordered a new one online, but she just bought a cheap pre-paid one to use ‘til it arrived.” Timmy shrugged. “It didn’t seem worth programming the number in, just for a couple days. I knew who it was.”

“And you didn’t mention any of this before because…?” asked Jones drily.

Timmy twisted around in his seat towards Jones again. “I didn’t want to lose my job!” He turned back around, and with his eyes fixed on the baseball cap in his hands, he mumbled, “Texting at work is sort of against the rules.”

Peter and Jones made eye contact over Timmy’s head, and Peter scrubbed one hand over his face and asked Timmy in a warning voice, “Is there anything **else** we should know?”

“Well, this isn’t the first time, I, y’know, I mean…” Timmy took a deep breath (which Peter thought must be hard for someone who was hunched over as much as Timmy was), and confessed cautiously, “Whenever Stacy drops by and I don’t have time for a break, I always at least poke my head out a door to wave at her.” And then, in an accelerating stream, “And I’ve let Stacy into the museum after hours a couple times. She likes to sketch with nobody else around. And, um, sometimes we, um, well, there’s this janitor’s closet that’s not on any of the security cameras…”

“Stop!” Peter held up one hand to halt Mr. Harris-Young’s torrent of too-much-information, and then motioned for Jones to join him outside the room. He waved for the rest of the team to join them, too.

Neal, Sara, and Diana had watched Timmy spilling his guts to Peter, and while Neal had commented, “That doesn’t look like ‘playing it cool’ to me”, Sara and Diana were hopeful that this might mean a break in the case. At the top of the stairs Diana asked, “Did you get him, Boss?”

But Peter just shook his head. “I don’t think Mr. Harris-Young is our inside man. He seems to be on a roll, though, trying to break every security regulation the Channing Museum has, but I don’t think he’s doing it to any greater purpose.”

Jones snorted a laugh, “Other than getting a little action with his girlfriend, that is.”

After Peter related Timmy’s ‘confession’, Sara wasn’t quite ready to give up on her theory. “He opened the door! He signaled the lookout,” she insisted again. Then she glanced back at the kid through the conference room walls, and her shoulders slumped a little. “Is there any chance he’s faking it? Acting like an idiot so we don’t suspect him?”

“I really don’t think so,” said Peter.

“Just an idiot.” Diana shook her head. The evidence really had made Timmy look guilty, but the thing about having theories is that sometimes you’re gonna be wrong. So Diana took a deep breath, let it out, and moved on. But she couldn’t help expressing her disapproval. “This kid was compromising their security every time he turned around.”

Disapproval was clearly not on Neal’s mind, as his eyes had grown brighter during Peter’s recounting of Timmy’s actions. “What a resource. Do you know if he has a regular work schedule?”

“Neal, don’t even think about it,” warned Peter.

Neal grinned at Peter, “What I **meant** was, if Timmy is such a habitual rule-breaker, the other guards must know about it. Maybe we should find out who assigned him to guard duty yesterday.”

“You think someone was counting on him to open that door?” asked Diana.

“Maybe.”

“It’s worth checking into.” Peter thought a moment, then, “Jones?”

“Yeah?”

Peter nodded towards Timmy, visible through the glass walls of the conference room. “Cut him loose. But keep an eye on him. And find out who set the guard schedule yesterday.”

—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—

As Jones escorted Mr. Harris-Young out of the FBI office, Sara grimaced and muttered, “And there goes our best lead.”

“But not our only lead,” Peter rebuked mildly. “And look, here comes another one now.”

Just passing Jones and Mr. Harris-Young on her way into the White Collar offices was a woman of about Peter’s age, wearing a conservative suit, but with a distinctly purple streak running through her short dark hair.

At the top of the stairs she greeted, “Peter!” and, with a nod to the rest of the group, “Peter’s team.”

“Connie,” Peter smiled his welcome, “what brings you upstairs to White Collar? And,” Peter teased, “if you’re up here, who’s keeping the tech department from running wild?”

Connie quirked a grin, and the two of them chuckled at this apparently-inside-joke.

Then Connie dropped the grin and she held up two files folders—one thin and one much thicker. “I wanted to bring these up here myself.”

“What have we got?” asked Peter, matching her serious tone.

Connie handed Peter the thinner file, and as he flipped it open to see a picture of the young blonde woman from the park, Connie explained. “Stacy Collins. Her picture’s in our system from the drivers license database. No criminal record.”

Peter nodded. “That fits.” And he handed the file over to Jones, who had just rejoined them.

Then Connie extended the thicker file to Peter, but held onto it for a moment until Peter looked up and made eye contact. “Your businessman is Alexei Vladov.”

As Peter’s eyes widened in recognition, she grinned again, and released her hold on the file. “I thought you’d like that,” she said, then turned to go.

“Well,” breathed Peter, “now we’re getting somewhere.”

Sara and Diana spoke up simultaneously, their demands of “What’s-?” and “Who is-?” tumbling over each other. A brief pause, and Diana continued, “Who’s Alexei Vladov? Is he one of the-”

Peter nodded. “The youngest brother of Dmitri Vladov,” Peter explained, “who is the head of the Vladov Shipping Company.”

“So, what do they ship?” asked Sara. “And why are they in the FBI database?”

“Officially, they made their fortune on import/export. Russian foods, spices, furniture. American clothing and electronics. But, the real money comes from smuggling...” Peter shook his head. “Anything and everything you can’t move legally, mixed in with their regular shipments. The FBI’s been looking into them, but they’re good. We don’t have anything concrete enough to move on…” Peter’s eyes narrowed. “Yet.”

Peter looked around the small circle of his team members on the landing. “If we can nail them for this, it could open the door to take down their whole operation.”

“I like the sound of that,” said Diana. “So how do we tie them to the heist?”

“I need you to get me the files on the whole family and known associates. With the best pictures you can get your hands on. Let’s figure out who our three thieves are, first,” said Peter, nodding through the glass wall at the pictures in the conference room.

“Sure thing, Boss.”

Next, Peter asked, “Sara, can you find out if Sterling Bosch has anything on the Vladovs?”

“I-“ Sara’s phone buzzed again. She glared as she dug for it in her bag, but surprise and concern flitted across her face as she glanced at the caller ID. “-I need to take this.” And she ducked into the conference room and shoved the door nearly shut behind her.

Diana and Jones exchanged yet another raised-eyebrows glance, but Peter just turned and asked, “Neal-“

“I know. Talk to my contacts.”

As Jones asked, “What do you want me to do, Peter?” Neal heard Sara’s raised voice saying, “No!” But her next words were quieter, and muffled by the conference room door.

So while Peter thought for a moment, Neal shifted closer to the not-quite-closed door and with one ear listened to Sara saying, “We had a plan. I won’t be ready by Thursday. And Saturday is definitely too late!” while with the other ear he heard Peter tell Jones, “I want you to keep looking for our inside man. I don’t want us to get so focused on the Vladovs that we lose sight of other possible leads.”

Jones and Diana headed down the stairs, and Neal casually shifted away from the conference room just as its door whipped open, and Sara emerged with a scowl on her face.

She froze for a moment, seeing Peter and Neal looking at her, then she pasted a smile on and continued answering Peter’s original question, “I’ll contact Sterling Bosch right now and see if they have anything on the Vladovs.”

Which left Neal wondering even more who Sara had just been making plans with, if not someone from Sterling Bosch.

Peter just thanked Sara and gave Neal a warning look. And then Sara marched down the stairs, and Peter disappeared into his office with the Vladovs’ hefty FBI file. Leaving Neal alone at the top of the stairs.

—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—

As he pulled out his phone to speed-dial Mozzie, Neal watched curiously as Sara flagged down Agent Blake, who happened to be passing by.

Mozzie answered mid-ring, “You got the FBI satellites tuned to my channel again?”

“What?” replied Neal.

“I was **just** now pulling out my phone to call you,” Mozzie accused.

“Mozzie, the FBI isn’t watching you with satellites.”

“Ah, so you’re not denying that they’re watching me,” countered Mozzie.

“Moz-,” But Neal’s attention was drawn back down to the bullpen. Blake was giving Sara the universal _you go out the door and turn left_ motion, and Sara turned towards the exit with a nod of thanks. “Wait, you were about to call me? Did you find anything on Sara?”

“Of course.”

“And…?” Neal watched Sara push through the glass doors, then he pulled his attention back to what Mozzie was saying.

“She’s leaving.”

Neal’s attention instantly snapped back to Sara, who was just disappearing into the elevator. “What?”

Mozzie continued, “Ms. Ellis will be packing up all her belongings on Friday and will be departing our fair shores as of this weekend.”

“She’s leaving **Sterling Bosch**?” Neal was still confused, but at the same time, Sara’s half-heard phone conversation began to make more sense.

“No. She’s officially being transferred to the main Sterling Bosch offices in London. But really, she’s going to be Sterling Bosch’s representative to that new European Union Joint Task Force on Art Crime. E-yooj-t-fac.” Mozzie sounded it out. “They really need a better acronym if they want to be taken seriously.”

“So it’s a promotion?” Neal essayed, ignoring Mozzie’s linguistic criticism.

“A big one.”

“But something’s not right,” Neal mused. “Why is she so upset?”

“Well,” said Mozzie delicately, “from talking to that perky assistant…I didn’t exactly get the impression that Ms. Ellis was going to be missed around the office.”

“Ouch!” said Neal. “They didn’t much care when she ‘died’, and now they’re glad she’s leaving?”

“Mmm. Apparently she gave the boss-man a piece of her mind this morning when he tried to take her off this case,” Mozzie gossiped. “Ms. Ellis made it abundantly clear that she didn’t think any _replacement_ would be as good.”

“Which is true,” allowed Neal.

“She even went so far as to insist that she’d have this case wrapped up before she left. **If** he would just leave her alone to do her job.”

“That explains…a lot,” said Neal, thinking of Sara’s uncharacteristic behavior that morning as Mozzie rambled on. Sara was always aggressive in pursuing her cases, but he’d never seen her so focused on speed, at the expense of being thorough.

“Yeah. It’s not just the Raphael she’s so possessive about.” Mozzie picked up steam. “It’s all her cases. Given that, you know, it’s not really a **bad** thing that she’s going to be out of New York.”

Neal, in an apparent non sequitur, asked, “Mozzie, you remember how I got Elizabeth the job catering the Masters Retrospective?”

“Ye-es,” said Mozzie, hoping that Neal was changing the subject. “Her career has certainly taken off since then.”

“She got arrested by Fowler because of me,” Neal explained. “I needed to do something that would make up for that.”

“You wanted to make things right with Mrs. Suit before…” Here Mozzie paused. “Before you left.”

Neal sighed. “I thought I had plenty of time to figure out how to pay Sara back. For the tape. I didn’t consider that **she** might be leaving.”

After an awkward pause, in which Mozzie considered all the things he might say about the inadvisability of feeling gratitude toward someone who wants to see you arrested, he just suggested hopefully, “Maybe you could just throw her a going-away party?”

Neal’s continued silence made clear his thoughts on that suggestion.

“So, um,” Mozzie asked, “what were you calling me about?”

“What can you tell me about the Vladov family?”

“Well, if you want to move something to or from Russia, they’re the people to talk to,” said Mozzie with renewed enthusiasm. “But they don’t like dealing with outsiders—they’re a tight-knit group-“ Mozzie interrupted himself, “-Oh. They were behind the heist?”

“Looks like,” replied Neal. “So why haven’t I ever heard of them before?”

“Well, you never were much interested in the _guns n drugs_ crowd,” said Mozzie. “And, to be honest, their crimes always seemed a bit…pedestrian…before. But they’ve gotten more adventurous in the last year,” said Mozzie approvingly. “That museum heist had style.”

“Yeah, but it’s a big step from drug smuggling to museum heists. They must have some contacts in the art crime community…or prior experience…”

“I can find that out. I know some people who might have dirt on the Vladov family-”

“Moz,” interrupted Neal, seeing Diana coming back into the bullpen, “I’ve gotta go. Thanks for the intel.”

“I’ll let you know if I hear anything else.”

—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—

Eyeing the stack of files Diana was carrying, Neal commented, “That was fast.”

“I just went downstairs and…borrowed ‘em,” explained Diana. “By the time Organized Crime notices they’re gone, we may well have cracked their case for them.”

“Well, then, shall we?” said Neal, and mock-ushered Diana back into the conference room.

Diana set the stack of files on the table, and flipped open the top folder. A nice, clear picture of Dmitri Vladov stared up at them. She pulled the picture out and slapped it up against the white board next to the half-obscured photos of the Lead Thief, and Neal pulled out a second page, featuring shots of Dmitri from either side. After a moment, Diana commented doubtfully, “Looks like the same nose. Maybe.”

Neal tilted his head and hmmed as he contemplated the sides of Dmitri’s face. “Look at the angle of the jaw. And the ears. It’s definitely him.”

At Diana’s gesture, she and Neal swapped photos, and Diana held the side views up to the white board to compare then. “Attached earlobes. Right ear protruding slightly. The angles of the helix and antihelix look like a match.”

“And look,” Neal pointed to the pictures of the lead thief’s left side, “he’s got this little thickening along the rim of his left ear.”

“All right!” said Diana as she taped Dmitri’s photo up next to the museum heist photos, “Let’s do this.”

Diana spread the rest of the files out neatly across the table. “We’ll start with Dmitri’s closest relatives,” Diana gestured first to the files nearest to herself, then further down the table as she said, “and work outwards from there.”

They rapidly identified the third thief as Gregor Vladov, another of Dmitri’s brothers. However, while Diana continued systematically comparing the rest of the family’s pictures with that of the second thief, Neal suddenly began flipping open files, seemingly at random.

“Hey! What’re you-?” Diana started to ask.

“The museum guards said the second guy was **big**.” Neal continued rifling through folders, then plucked a picture from one. “This is the biggest guy in the whole Vladov clan,” Neal looked back down at the personal information in the folder-at-hand, “by a **lot.** ”

Neal held the picture of Dmitri’s second-cousin-once-removed Mikhael “Miko” Terzov up to the white board, and their eyes darted back and forth between the pictures, lining up features and comparing angles. Until, finally, “Yeah,” said Diana. “Ears are a match. Nose looks right, too, and,” they both saw it and said, together, “a tiny scar on his chin.”

A shared grin and a fist bump celebrated their success, and Neal said lightly, “So, we’ve got the Vladov Brothers and Cousin Miko.”

“Sounds like a good name for a band,” joked Diana, as she picked up Dmitri’s file and flipped it open.

“Sounds like you may have ID’d our Russian thieves,” said Peter approvingly as he walked into the room.

“And what’d’you know,” said Diana, looking up from the file, “Dmitri’s first job…was as a bike messenger.”

Peter held up the even thicker Vladov file that Connie had given him, and nodded. “He’s worked the streets, the docks, the front office. Just about every job in the organization as he worked his way up in the ranks.

Peter set the file on the table and, still talking, turned to examine the pictures Diana and Neal had added to the white board, while Diana and Neal moved the rest of the Vladov family folders aside.

“Dmitri Vladov took over the family business when his father died last year, and he’s been expanding in new directions ever since. As of right now, most of their profits come courtesy of the Russian black market for prescription drugs.”

Peter turned away from the white board with a, “Good work,” and continued, “Organized Crime is building a case against them, but they’re still one big break away from making their case.”

“Maybe we can provide that break,” said Sara, who entered the conference room holding a cup of coffee that Neal recognized as coming from the coffee shop around the corner to the left. Which solved the mystery of Blake’s directions and left Neal still contemplating the bigger mystery of how to pay her back.

We know about the Vladovs drug smuggling operation,” said Peter, “but art crime seems to be a new thing for them. Does Sterling Bosch have anything linking the Vladovs to the art world? Anything that might help us figure out what they’ve done with the stolen art?”

Sara pursed her lips slightly. “We don’t have them tied to any art-related crimes, either. The only thing I found in the Sterling Bosch database is this-” Sara pulled out her phone again, and opened up an email attachment she’d just had her secretary send her, “after his father died, Dmitri Vladov arranged for a portrait of his father to be painted by a man named Kalen Andrews.”

Neal twitched slightly. “Oh, yeah?” he questioned, leaning towards Sara. “What did it look like?”

After a beat, Sara angled her phone towards Neal.

“Hmm.” Neal sounded disappointed. “Surprisingly normal.”

Peter and Diana, now curious, leaned over to see a picture of a man, clearly an older relative of their four thieves. “So?” asked Diana. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Sara and Neal exchange a wary glance.

“Well,” Neal started, “Andrews is known for modern art, primarily abstract. He uses symbolism to highlight the contradictions inherent in modern life…”

Sara interrupted, “Family portraits aren’t exactly his area of expertise.”

“So either Vladov has got some secret connection to Andrews,” said Diana, at which Sara shrugged, “or he’s really clueless about art.”

“We’ll add him to the list of people we’re trying to connect to the Vladovs,” said Peter.

“Yeah, well, if Vladov’s not a closet Vermeer fan,” asked Diana, “then what’s a Russian drug smuggler actually want with a couple of Dutch masterpieces, anyways?”

“Maybe it’s like the Samurai bonds,” suggested Neal. “Paintings are a nice compact way to carry a lot of money. He may just be using the paintings as currency, as part of his plan to expand the family business.”

“Well, we’ve got customs clamped down,” said Peter. “He won’t be able to get them out of the country.”

“And if he tries to move them in New York, we’ll hear about it,” added Neal.

“So basically we’ve back to square one,” said Diana. “We need to figure out where he’s hiding the paintings.”

—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—W—C—

As everyone digested this for a moment, all eyes swung back to Peter at the head of the table.

“We’ve got a list of Vladov properties—homes, businesses, warehouses—scattered over the five boroughs and the Jersey coast,” said Peter, pulling a sheet of paper out of the Vladov file. “But we’re going to need more than just probable cause to search any of them.”

“What!” said Sara. “Why?”

“At this point, the Vladovs expect the FBI to be poking around,” explained Peter, laying the list down on the table. “But if we serve a warrant, and don’t find what we’re looking for, they might decide we’re **too** close, and the time has come to cut their losses and destroy the evidence.”

Neal and Sara both flinched at this, though Sara tried to cover up her reaction by reaching for the list of Vladov properties.

“And not just for our case,” realized Diana. “We could be jeopardizing Organized Crime’s case, too. In fact, if Hughes got wind of our current suspects, I’m guessing he’d take all this,” Diana waved her arm around to encompass the files on the table and the matching pictures on the white board, “and hand it right back to Organized Crime to help make **their** case.”

“Which is exactly why I’d like to have something a little more concrete before I take this to Hughes,” said Peter.

There was a moment of quiet, as everybody tried to think of ways to solidify their case. None of them wanted to see the case handed over to Organized Crime, but to keep that from happening, they needed a better idea of where the Vladovs were hiding the art.

“Wait, Peter?” Sara had skimmed down the list of Vladov properties while Diana was talking, then had picked up her phone and starting searching through her Sterling Bosch files again.

“This address?” She slid the list back over to Peter, pointed out an entry near the bottom of the page, and turned her phone so Peter could read the file for himself. “It’s Kalen Andrews’ gallery.”

“Which opened six months ago.” Neal made the connection. “Right after Andrews finished the portrait of Vladov Senior.”

Peter looked up from Sara’s phone, and tapped his finger on the property list. A grin began to appear on Peter’s face. “So there **is** more of a connection between them.”

“And the gallery is a public place,” said Sara, with a matching grin. “We don’t need a warrant to go there.”

“No, we don’t,” Peter agreed, looking down at the property list again, and mentally calculating. “And look, it’s less than a mile from here. So, Neal, you know this guy‘s work. What can you tell us about the gallery? Is there a back room, or something, where the paintings could be hidden?”

“Or,” chimed in Diana, “a cluttered area where they could tuck a Vermeer behind a stack of canvases and nobody’d notice for a couple weeks?”

“I, ah, may not be the best person to ask about that,” said Neal breezily, sliding the nearest Vladov folder over, flipping it open, and pretending to be engrossed.

“Neal.” Peter put his hands on his hips.

Neal sat up very straight, and smiled helpfully. “Yes, Peter?”

“Neal, did you-“ Peter couldn’t keep his mind from jumping to conclusions, but he did manage to stop his mouth from asking Neal, in the presence of witnesses, if he’d stolen or forged anything on the walls of Andrews’ gallery.

Sara, with no such qualms, jumped right to asking, “Did **you** hide something there? My Raphael, perhaps?”

“No!” said Neal. “It’s just,” he shrugged, fidgeting with the pages of Alexei Vladov’s dossier, “I haven’t been there. Yet.”

“What,” Diana joked, “an artist you like, a gallery within your radius, and you expect us to believe you haven’t gone?”

“It’s four _years_ within my radius,” Neal snapped, before renewing his fake fascination with the dossier. “I was trying to save some things…” he shrugged, “for later.”

Peter and Diana had the grace to look abashed at this.

“All right,” said Peter awkwardly. “All right. Well,” Peter hitched out his arm to look at his watch, “the gallery’s about to close for the day. But first thing tomorrow **we** ’ll go check it out.”

Neal heard his partner’s slight emphasis on the word _we_ , took it for the apology it was meant to be, and perked right back up again.

Sara, oblivious to this little interplay, said, “I’m coming, too.”

Peter drew breath to disagree, but Neal, still trying to solve his mystery, said, “The more, the merrier.”

Peter blinked, surprised and not a little suspicious, but he just admonished Sara, “All right. Meet us here tomorrow morning. And don’t be late!”


End file.
